Raising Abel: An International Thriller Read online

  "The kiss of Tosca!" Bryce chortled as Giuseppe di Stefano cried out, "Aiuto!"

  "No help for you, you slimy pond scum."

  The light changed to green. Traffic began creeping forward. Bryce accelerated. "Yeah, strangle on your own blood." Matching his voice to Tosca's, Bryce sang, "Muori! Muori! Muori!"

  Scarpia's death rattle filled the Durango's plush interior. As the violins muted, Bryce imagined Tosca placing burning candles to either side of Scarpia's head and finally lowering the crucifix to his bloody chest.

  Lightning flashed in the night sky, casting the trees in eerie white and illuminating the strip mall at the junction of Dunbarton and Hill Road. It gleamed on the water-shiny cars and sparkled in the cascading raindrops.

  Bryce signaled and took the right onto Hill Road before merging left. Humming along with the music, he took the left into his subdivision and followed the winding streets past tree-cloaked houses, parked cars, and the trash cans lining the curb—his nightly ritual passage through suburbia.

  Pulling into his driveway, Bryce turned off the wipers and headlights and then the ignition before the gentle strains of the third act could begin. In the silence he could hear only the metallic pattering of rain on the Durango's roof. He reached into the passenger seat and picked up his briefcase with its precious notes from the day's research.

  He closed the door behind him and pushed the remote button on the key fob that locked his Durango and set the security system, then dashed across the space to his side door before unlocking it and stepping into the warm, dry retreat of his house.

  He'd been lucky to find the little split-level ranch. Just one of those blessed breaks he seemed to get. Well, lucky in everything but women. A divorce settlement sale on the market for a year, the house had been the major bone of contention between the previous owners until the judge decreed that it be sold—at whatever cost—and quickly! Bryce had waltzed in with a solid down payment and picked up the property for a good twenty grand below its appraised value. Were it any consolation, he wasn't the only one with woman problems.

  He crossed the kitchen and dropped his briefcase on the table. Walking into the dining room, he punched the answering machine button. The mechanical voice told him, "You have two messages."

  The machine whirred. Then Candi's melodic voice informed him, "Hi. Uh...Bryce? Listen, I've done a lot of thinking since last week. Look, this just isn 't going to work. I thought I'd...well, I'm going to be seeing someone else." A pause. "I just can't keep sharing you with your research. You're a sweet guy. But you're just not... I mean, I need someone who's there! Who doesn't forget."

  He grimaced. They had fought two days ago when he'd spaced the special dinner she had made for their six-month anniversary.

  "That's all. I just wanted to tell you that there were no hard feelings. I tried the lab. They said you were busy. Story of my life, right? Otherwise, I'd have told you in person. Look, don't call me, okay. I mean, there's nothing left to say."

  He stood foolishly, staring at the little plastic box with its unforgiving tape. The instant desire to smash the emotionless machine faded as the tape clicked and John Gerrolds said, "Hey. We missed you at the meeting. I just thought you might want to know that we're having a target match Saturday at the range. Second thing, your dues are three months in arrears, and the gun club is going to drop you from the membership list. This is your last warning, buddy. Pony up." Click.

  "That was your final message," the machine intoned.

  "Yeah, right. Hell of a day." He turned and walked back into the kitchen. For the moment, he stared at the briefcase where it lay, rain-spotted, on the table. Was there some reason, some divine justice, that he couldn't keep a girlfriend for more than a few months?

  He took a bottle of Sam Adams from the refrigerator and retrieved the remains of the noodle casserole that Candi had made for him. At least she'd been a dynamite cook. He placed the bowl in the microwave and punched the timer button for five minutes before seating himself at the table. As the microwave hummed, he glanced over at the sink, where dishes were piled high—evidence that Candi hadn't been in the house for at least a week. Dishes had never been one of his strong points. The mute dish washer seemed to glare balefully at him from where it lurked, neglected, under the countertop.

  To hell with women. And to hell with dishwashers, too. They were nothing but trouble. He sighed and took a swig from the beer. He needed to establish himself. He was still only an assistant professor of anthropology at the University of New Hampshire. Once he had tenure locked up, then he could worry about a life to go along with his career. Damn it, he was well on the way down the "publish or perish" track. Three articles in major journals in the last year and a half wasn't bad. Not only that, but the research just kept expanding. The raw data Scott and Amanda were sending him drew him like a moth to a burning taper. New gene sequences and potential combinations, as if the very keys of humanity, were jangling from the tips of their fingers.

  The microwave dinged. He stood, rummaging through the cabinet for his last clean plate. The thing about women, he thought as he spooned out steaming casserole, was that they really weren't hard to find. Not when a man had red-gold hair, an athletic build, and a good face. It seemed like all he had to do was go for a cup of coffee and some woman was talking to him, telling him he had a nice smile, or his hazel eyes sparkled, or some such.

  He had demolished most of the casserole when the phone rang.

  "Candi?" He jumped from the chair, charged into the dining room, and scooped up the handset. "Hello?"

  "It's Scott." The voice sounded tense.

  "Yeah, what's up? Hey, did you get your copy of AJPA yet? We're the first article—"

  "Shut up! Listen!" Scott swallowed hard on the other end. "Look, I can't go into details, but something's happened. I can't get hold of Amanda. I just get her damn machine. I think we're in trouble. Big trouble."

  "What trouble? I don't understand."

  "You wouldn't. I've lied to you! Lied to a lot of people. But someone has found out. Someone was in my office. I'm being followed, and I—"

  "Followed by who?"

  "Listen to me, will you? The research. It's not theoretical. It's real. It has been for over four years now! No matter what happens, don't call the police! Don't do anything but disappear, you got that?"

  "Scott, you're not making any sense!"

  "There are people out there who will try and stop us, no matter the price. You got that? I want you to collect everything. Remember the peach brandy?"

  Bryce frowned. "Well, yeah, that was at—"

  "Shut up! Meet me there. Call Amanda. Find her. Tell her that people know. Tell her Ostienko was right. Tell her to leave her house, get the hell out of Athens, and meet me where we drank peach brandy. Key's in the foramen magnum. Got that? Repeat it."

  "Meet you where we drank peach brandy. The key is in the foramen magnum. Why don't I just tell her to meet us—"

  "People are being killed over this, pal. Avi's dead. You got that? Dead!" A pause. "Look, if you've ever done anything for me, do this. Pack up and leave. Tonight. Take cash. Don't tell anyone where you're going. Don't use credit cards."

  "Scott, this isn't making any sense."

  "Trust me! I'll tell you about it when I see you."

  "Scott, I—"

  "Hey, pal...if I don't get there, I want you to know that I love you. And, well...I'm sorry I—"

  In the background, Bryce heard a voice—male, muffled—saying, "Dr. Ferris?”

  A frightened Scott Ferris asked, "Who are you? How the hell did you get into my—" Someone grunted, and the phone clattered as if dropped. Bryce could hear what sounded like a struggle: the hollow thumpings, as if flesh were being abused, and grunts of pain.

  A moment later, a man's deep voice asked, "Hello? Who is this, please?"

  Heart pounding, Bryce hung up. For a moment all he could do was stare at the phone, suddenly, inexplicably afraid. The research was real? His brain tr
ied to race through the implications.

  A prank! It had to be. But in all of his life, he'd never known Scott to be a prankster. Earnest, yes, and in his profession, dedicated to the point of being driven. One of his favorite sayings was, "Sometimes it takes an extremist to stamp out fanatics."

  Bryce hurried down the hallway to his bedroom and pulled out his suitcase. As he threw clothes into the nylon bag, the implications began to seep in. The research was real? How real?

  That deep male voice, so deadly calm, echoed in his brain, "Hello? Who is this, please?"

  His gut churned as he pulled open the bottom drawer of the dresser and lifted his black nylon pistol case from beneath his underwear.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Mother is scared. He watches her with his big blue eyes. She is hurrying, and he hates it when she does that. The sound of her pants make a shush-zip sound with each step of her long legs. He wants to suck his thumb. That always reassures him, but Mother has told him time and time again that thumb sucking is for babies. And he is four now. Almost five. Next year he is supposed to go to school.

  Mother is taking clothes from her closet. He walks closer, carefully noting the red dress, the three pairs of blue jeans, the brown corduroy pants. She takes four T-shirts, two white blouses, her three brassieres, and four sets of pink panties.

  "Muvver, whass wong?"

  "We've got to go on a trip, honey." She slows, fear bright in her blue eyes. He reads her expression, and the fear in his own small body grows. It's an uncomfortable feeling, making his in-sides want to go to the bathroom. Making him want to run off on his stubby little legs and hide.

  "We be oohkay?" he asks, concentrating so the words don't slur.

  "Yes, baby." But fright lies deep in her voice. His hearing, better than hers, detects the tension, and his fear heightens. His sense of smell picks up the slight change of her odor—more metallic, like the smell of a copper penny.

  The trouble had started with the phone call. From across the room, he had heard a male voice, flat, changed by the phone. "Becky," it said. "We're in trouble. You've got to leave. Avi's dead. Someone knows...everything."

  At that, his mother's spine had stiffened. "Scott? You're not serious?"

  "I just heard. Avi's been murdered. Someone has been in my house. They've been through my papers. I think I've had someone watching me for the last couple of days. Just play it safe, huh? Go to the bank. Collect the envelope. It will tell you what to do. I can't talk now. Just do as I say."

  And the phone had clicked as the man hung up.

  Mother had stood for a moment, a terrible look on her face. Then she used a finger to clear the connection, dialed a number, and said, "Celia? It's Becky. Scott just called. We're found out. Someone killed Avi. Call the others. We've got to run."

  After that, she called several other women, her voice almost shrill. He had only seen Mother like that once before, when she and Aunt Eu had gotten into a fight over the phone. It had been late at night, when he was supposed to be in bed. Mother's voice had been shrill that time, too. And then Mother had said, "You've become such a bigot. I...I hate you." And she had slammed the phone down and sunk onto the kitchen floor, where she held her head in her hands and cried.

  In complete panic, Abel had hidden in the dark, horrified and paralyzed. But the next morning Mother had been fine, smiling, patting him on the head. She had made French toast for him, with lots of cinnamon. Then, a week later, Aunt Eunice had come and talked with Mother. They had talked about him. About Aunt Eu having a boy like him. Maybe they could be playmates. It had been later when the shouting started. He had run and hid, clutching his buffalo for security.

  As he watches Mother pack, he tenses his fingers, feeling the muscles in his arms swell. He is strong. Much stronger than his playmates—the ones in preschool who no longer tease him and call him "freak" because of the funny way that he talks. Fear always does this, makes him tighten his muscles against the runny feeling inside.

  Mother rushes past and into the bathroom. She pulls bottles from the medicine chest, tossing them into a plastic sack. She takes her hair dryer, the box of tampons, the shampoo from the plastic-screened shower.

  He follows her into his room, tears starting to streak down his face. His vision grows hazy with silver. She takes his clothes out of the dresser and tosses them into the bag.

  "I don't wanna go," he says, the wetness in his nose turning his talk even funnier.

  Mother bends down, her fingers wiping the tears from his sloping cheeks. "It's all right, my little man. We have to go away for a while. That's all."

  "Go see Aunt Eu?"

  "No, dear. We don't want to drag her into this. Not now. Not after what she said to me the last time. The psychotic... Forget it. She has enough troubles of her own." Her blue eyes cloud for a moment; then she sniffs bravely and says, "No, it's you and me for a while, sweetie. I just need you to be tough."

  She stands then and finishes the packing. He turns, carefully picking up his toys: "Chaser," the stuffed buffalo he sleeps with; the magic snowstorm from Park City; and the little blue truck that Aunt Eu bought him back in Ohio. These he places in his canvas bag from Sam Weller's bookstore downtown. Mother takes him there to buy new "Hank the Cowdog" books, and one time, the lady behind the cash register gave him the bag.

  As Mother hurries past with his suitcase, he takes one last look around his room. Memories from Ohio are faint, shifting into the gray past. This has been his place. His bed, with its magic covers, protected him from the scary things in the night: the small, stick-thin shadow people that lurk under his bed, and the black-clawed things that hide in the dark corners of the closet.

  He takes one last look at himself in the mirror, staring into his somber, large blue eyes. He still wishes that his nose were a little smaller, and that his face were a little flatter. More like Brian O'Neil's. Brian lives next door and is his best friend. They play together and go to the same preschool. Brian doesn't call him names anymore.

  "Abel?" Mother calls, stopping to take the picture of her and Aunt Eu from the table. She looks at it and then places it facedown, back on the table. "Come on, sweetie. We've got to go."

  Abel swallows hard, runs a hand over his delicate and pale hair, and shoulders his bag. He is halfway out the door before he runs back and grabs up his copies of "Hank the Cowdog". Wherever he and Mother are going, she will want to read to him as she has every night since he can remember.

  As he runs out the door, he looks up, afraid. "Muvver? Was I bad? Iss tha why we gotta go?"

  For the briefest of instants, he sees a terrible panic on her face; then she smiles bravely, fighting tears, and says, "No, little man. You're the best boy in the whole world." She checks inside his bag, frowns, and takes out the little blue truck, saying, "I don't want you to have that." She leaves it on the step.

  "But, Muvver, Aunt Eu—"

  "I know. Just do this for me, Abel." Her hands tighten on the pink suitcase. He can see her knuckles turn moon white with the grip. "Everything is going to work out fine, baby. I promise."

  Her tears come as she leads him toward the car, and he is more frightened than ever. He wonders if his little blue truck is already lonely.

  The layout of the Mayflower Hotel bar could be likened to a boot. A divider ran down the leg; the heel created an angle, faced by windows; while the toe formed a narrow little alcove with a single table. As though a refugee from the thousand-dollar suits of the other patrons, Special Agent Joe Hanson, in his two-hundred-buck JC Penney gray wool-and-rayon special, sat wedged in the boot tip. He had positioned his chair both to monitor the bar's patrons and to look out the window with its brown curtains and little dingle-balls. This way he could keep an eye on the people walking along the sidewalk outside. It was the eleventh of June, muggy and hot in the city. He could be doing worse than sitting here drinking Coke and enjoying the air-conditioning.

  The table was prized by individuals who, in this most public of places, desired a mo
dicum of privacy. Not that the Mayflower bar had a reputation for such. After all, the little lounge had played host to most of Washington DC's, rich and famous, from Monica Lewinsky right on down to Cabinet members, ambassadors, and the occasional foreign head of state. Being situated across DeSales Street from the ABC studios—in addition to the hotel's stature in national lore—ensured that it was a place to see and be seen. Which, to Joe's amusement, was one of the reasons "Maria Mason" had chosen to contact him here. The furtive and covert didn't meet in the Mayflower, with its walnut trim, polished brass, white-coated waiters, and ever-curious patrons.

  Hunching down in the leather chair, Joe glanced at his watch; the five o'clock rush would just be hitting the streets. Activity in the bar would peak at roughly five-thirty. In anticipation, he had arrived an hour and a half earlier just to hold this table and the relative privacy it ensured. That, and a good agent covered his bases, forever leery of an ambush. No one had ever accused Joe Hanson of being a fool. He was working on his fourth glass of Coke, having over-tipped the waiter enough to maintain his continued welcome.

  When the hands of Joe's watch had moved to five-fifteen a woman pushed her way through the crush, eyes searching until she found his table. The noise level had risen to a dull roar, and in the press, her arrival could have been characterized as "invisible". She wore a conservative gray suit designed to deemphasize the fact that God had graced her with a forty-two-inch bust on a petite body that fit comfortably into a size five. Her dyed brown hair had been pulled back and pinned at the nape of the neck. A black, patent-leather handbag was clutched before her. Joe guessed her age at mid-forties, well preserved, with a delicate face dominated by a slim, straight nose. Something about her set him on edge. As her gaze met his, a sudden intensity burned through her defensive gray eyes.

  She slipped into the chair he had insistently denied the blue-suited Interior Department lawyer who stood behind his friends at the next table. Placing her purse on the gray-brown carpet next to her feet, she gave him a wary grin. "Mind if I lie when I say that it's good to see you, Agent Hanson?"